The Secret Casebook of Sherlock Holmes
by Paper-mate-Pony
Summary: Dearest Billy, It is with a heavy hand that I must relay: Sherlock Holmes is dead. I, too, am not long of this earth, and so It falls to you to publish these: my most secret works. The pages within will stain our collective reputations, but you must understand: They are as true and real as my words before you. Most faithfully yours, Dr John Watson M.D
1. Chapter 1

**Case One: The Adventure of the Centurion' s Helm: The first of two parts.**

**Paper_mate_Pony**

"I should swear 'pon my life, sir, It spoke! It spoke to me in the frankest of tones. I may be a drunkard Sir, and perhaps even senile—Heaven forbid, but I am almost sixty five, you see—but every word I say to you, every breath of it, is as true and honest as these hairs upon my chin!"

So went the cry that drove me awake upon a particularly dreary morning in Baker Street. These cries were highly irregular, not to mention highly uncalled for. I recall lying on my back stubbornly, to ensure that it was in fact morning, and there were in fact voices coming from below. I seemed to be correct on both counts, as quite soon after our unknown visitor had woken the neighborhood, the calm hum of Sherlock Holmes' voice could be heard ratifying the situation.

"Nay, Mr Holmes," cried the voice again, in a thick welsh baritone, "'tis you who appears to be mad—Well you inferred it then! I could see it in your eyes!"

The narration continued as I ambled through the threshold of my bedroom and down into the sette of our humble flat. Holmes replied in a calm voice, but it appeared he was having little effect on our raving guest. "Oh contend you sir, you have been expecting me!"

The long, thin figure of Sherlock Holmes lay across his armchair. His supine fingers met at a point just below his hawkish chin while his keen brown eyes gazed, non-plussed, at whomever it was that disturbed our peace

"Mr Harrington, I have not been expecting you, nor am I treating your apparently dire situation with even the slightest contempt. From the soot I perceive on your right elbow it would appear you have been travelling by rail quite recently. As surface trains don't circumvent soot into their carriages you must have traveled underground at some point, and for a long enough to leave such a stain on your elbows, which were resting up against the windows as you slept I would gather. As the aforementioned rest and your distastefully creased jacket would portray, you have been sitting down for a while, and through the night as it were. Thus, it is not too hard to imagine that you left summerset upon the Great Western eleven o'clock to London, the only evening express to make use of our great, British underground rail network. Ahh, Watson," he turned to me, "so good to see you up at this hour of the morn! If you aren't too hazy, may I present to your scrutiny: One Charles Harrington of Summerset."

Our guest fidgeted as my gaze was brought to bear. He was a large fellow, his shoulders spanned the width of our doorway yet his face appeared two sizes too small; two beady eyes peered over a thin hooked nose. I assumed age was the culprit, as the thin blond hairs that waved to and fro as he stood looked as thin and numerous as the wrinkles around his permanently furrowed brow. His pants were pinstriped, as was the jacket he wore beneath a cavernous green travelling coat, privy to many a summer it would seem. The whole ensemble was speckled with both fresh and ancient specks of mud.

"Sir, if you wouldn't be minding," he asked Holmes, eyeing me suspiciously, "would it be perhaps too much to ask if your friend here were not privy to all of our dealings?"

"Mr Harrington, Watson is the final word on privacy. Your narrative—which I must admit seems like it is little more than that—is safe within these walls. I can assure you that any and everything said in this room shant leave it."

"Is that what you told Norberton?" he asked, the question for me more than Holmes. "The man is a ruin, you know. Not that it was undeserved, but his reputation died beneath the good doctor's pen. I would rather not have such a thing happen to me. I may look like a drunk, indeed I smell like one, but I had a reputation, and somewhere on God's great Earth is a man who remembers the name Charlie Harrington!"

His face was livid, but his speech seemed incoherent and rambling as if his mind were on something else.

"Mr Harrington," Holmes rose from his chair, "Sir Robert Norberton deserved all that he received. If justice could not be served in the plane of law, then it can most certainly be upheld in the social one. If you have read any of my Biographer's works it would become apparent that the most colorful of cases has been dealt with in such a tentative manner; that if any sort of derision should arise, it is from myself alone, condemning my Boswell here for his inability to lay out the most vital of facts. However, I can almost assure you, Mr Harrington, that your case will seldom reach the annals of the public, for I refuse to deal with time wasters. Now, if you are quite finished insulting my intelligence, and that of my friend, please, be off!"

When Sherlock Holmes normally concluded an investigation so tersely, it was not out of rage nor emotion, but to raise a point: That diplomacy was over, and the offending party should either leave quietly, or remain loudly. In my experience, those who meant well left without another word. Those who did not remained, to their eventual failing. Harrington was a member of neither these parties as, for only the second time in my career, I watched a man beg at Mr Holmes' feet.

The change that came over Mr Harrington was brief but decisive. Tears formed at the creases of his ancient eyes, and such a dark expression mounted his face. I have never seen such pain upon the features of a man since.

"Ohh Mr Holmes, No! No, you could not! I am not an insane man, nor am I a time waster. Oh Lord, You know not of what I have been through! It spoke to me sir, such a foul beast it was. Oh, bless you if you never see the day it comes over the moors like it did for I!

"The Devil, sir! He stalks the hills of Summerset! Ten feet tall, at least! Eyes of fire and rage! Oh I shall see it in my nightmares, on the day I die! It had the tail of a snake, but an arm of a lion, and another of some vile bird. And the head of a goat Sir! Oh and the horns, one cannot forget the horns!"

Finding no solace on the face of Sherlock Holmes he turned to me, crowing to the floor and almost kissing my bare feet.

"Oh, but you will listen, won't you, Dr Watson? I meant no insult before! If you wish, you may write my little tale to all the publications of the world! I would not care! But you see, it was through the evening gloom I trod. It is true, you see, I am a drunk! A vile, rotten old man. I should be dead, Mr Holmes, yet I walk amongst the living! How else does a liverpool industrialist while away his days staggering through Summerset? And there I was, upon the gloomy downs. I sleep 'pon the hills, for old men are not permitted to rest 'pon the cobbles! I may never remember the terrible days I spent 'pon those fields, but I shall certainly remember that night! A great flash, of blue and red, before me! I was blinded, sir, but my ears worked fine for I heard hushed gasps, and the sound of hooves around me! My eyes returned to me as I lay, but what I saw? I wish they never had.

"The Beast, its foul neck stretched to the ground, peering at me through those devilish eyes! And he was not alone! Horses, Ponies? I know not, but there were ten of them in all, they wore helmets—Helmets Sir! And they followed the Beast's orders to the letter! He told them to stand me up, and they did. He brought himself to his full height, such a horrible sight it was, and then...then he spoke!

"'The way to Shoscombe Old Place, peasant!' he demanded, and I damn nearly fainted, sir. But a Welshman never faints, not even for the Devil. So I stood my ground, and I asked of him,

"'What...who are you?'

"He chuckled, as if he were the schoolmaster receiving his prize pupil! 'I am the lord of chaos,' he said, 'the master of that which cannot be mastered!' I swear upon it, sir, his cackling wrung thunder from the skies, and lightning from the heavens! But then, then he came very close, right up to my face, and asked quite frankly, 'The way to Shoscombe Old Place, If you please?'

"I pointed him over the downs, toward Norberton's villa, and he doffed his cap—where did he find a cap, sir!—and was off, carried by his... Servants? Slaves? They could have been Centurions for all I know! And then I ran, sir! I ran toward the station. I knew of your exploits—there is not a man, woman or child in Shoscombe who doesn't and took the very last train to London. Please, sir, for whatever its worth, do not let to-day be my very last day on earth!"

He sniffled upon the floor, almost caressing my legs as he would a lover. Holmes' face had taken on the demure gaze I knew meant he considered the man's plight. My friend seldom undertook cases out of pity for the victim; only for those which presented him a challenge, for he played the game for the game's sake as you know. But the sheer desperation that Mr Harrington presented us with must have made some effect on my normally mechanic friend.

"Mr Harrington," he finally said, and our visitor looked up at him through bloodshot eyes, "I am a very busy man. However, if I should hear anymore of this incident—recall that while its owner is disdained, Shoscombe remains the very best training stable in England—I shall rectify myself and pay you the very respect you are entitled. Until then, do the page a favor, and leave our house!"

Mr Harrington excused himself in the most pathetic of gestures, crowing even further toward the ground and muttering blessings until he was through the door. The subject was dropped for the duration of the early morning. Holmes lazed on the couch, while I removed myself to my Kensington practice. My Wife was attending a funeral with her family at Swansea, and so I had moved to my old lodgings of Baker Street—at Holmes' behest—for the duration of her grieving. Very few patients were to visit me that day however, and I had seen every one before eleven o'clock. With nothing to entertain me there, I left for Baker street, in the hopes that Holmes had become entrenched in another of his adventures, rather than the solemn contemplation that dogged him whenever cases refused to come to fruition.

I caught a cab from Kensington to Regents Park, where I thought to brave the dour weather and stroll to our flat. However, it seemed that it had taken a turn for the sour since I had left my lodgings. Nary a soul walked the streets, and snow had banked high upon the corners. Dressed in only my business frock and my Westinghouse coat, the walk was long, cold and dire. Instead of spending it contemplating the morning's event such as I had intended, I could not but think of how silly I had been.

It was a ten minute trudge through the snow banks, and I was glad to see the lights of our apartment shining through the fall. The door was, however, opened on me by an unseen urchin, who bowled me to the floor as he sped through the threshold of 221B Baker Street. I slipped to the cobbles numerous times trying to right myself. Not wishing to make chase through the cold, and even more certain that I would have lost him anyway, I rose tentatively and entered.

"Tell me, Watson, how does a house on fire get on?" Holmes asked through the threshold as I ascended the stairs.

"I surely do not know," I answered my colleague, curled up upon his worn armchair as I docked my cloak upon the hanger and made for the fire roaring at the hearth.

"The fiends of Britain appear to be weathering, Watson. I have seen not hide nor hair of their numerous exploits in The Times," he said with a frown. "Yet this message here perplexes me. Watson, I sincerely value your input, now as much as ever. How does a house, on fire, get on?" he said methodically, gesturing with his hand at every pause.

"Well," said I, "one would expect a house on fire to go down rather quickly, I should think."

Holmes chuckled. "Watson, should I ever rise so high that I lose sight of land, surely you would be there to reign me back among the mundane. Yes, I think that a house on fire would get on rather nicely. Why, then, does this anonymous correspondent wish for me to know this? Furthermore, why would they send it by hand in this dreadful weather, when a telegram would no doubt have been far more worth his while."

"That was your messenger?" I ejaculated, still feeling the throb of where I had collided with the unforgiving ice.

"If you mean the urchin who knocked you asunder—Oh don't make that face at me, Watson, you know very well that the damp patches upon your rear and the bruised expression you wore as you entered told me everything I needed to know—no. He was their messenger, 'they' being whomever wrote this missive. So what do you think of it?"

I shrugged.

"Indeed, perhaps a quick glance at this little note shall clear the fog of our minds, no? Here, what do you make of it?"

He handed me a small, thin rectangle.

** How is it getting on?** [It read]

** Like a house on fire, Mr Holmes, like a house on fire.**

"It is a typed note," said I, "so the author wishes to remain anonymous. What more can I say?"

"Well," said Holmes, "whomever wishes to remain anonymous lives somewhere in the vicinity of charing cross, an accountant I believe, works at Geofferys, Geoffereys and Jones—is high in the firm but does not share the namesake—and happens to be left handed."

"My Dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

"Watson, surely by now you know of my methods? First and foremost, what do you see along the very top edge? Three little bars, it would seem, but it is indicative of a water mark. Thus, we know that for whomever this perpetrator works for, they happen to be a well known firm. Well known enough, one should think, to watermark their paper. You also know that there is a monogram—penned by myself—In circulation on the identification of typewriters. Now, you shall see here that these letters are relatively even, and by that I mean there is no evidence of a certain lean, indicative of long usage. However, if you would look closer, every letter has almost been punched in, meaning that the back-plate has been worn down to such an extent that the paper does not rest evenly upon its surface. Old typewriters that have yet to see their fair share of type all share this trademark. Thus, we have an old typewriter that is rarely used, but is still fed with paper for official documents pertaining to an important firm. We can be sure, then, that the user of this typewriter does not do the bulk of the paperwork yet still maintains an office typewriter as opposed to a personal machine. One should be in a position to deduce, therefore, that this certain individual is in a managerial capacity."

"Why, it is as clear as day!"

"So it is, Watson. But we are seldom finished. How do I know his handedness? Even his home parish?"

The pause and his keen gaze told me that the question was not rhetorical.

"Well, taking the day into account," said I, "his urchin will have had to walk, as I doubt he could afford a cab on a day such as this." I recall thinking "or ever" out of spite. "Charing-cross is the closest business centre," I continued, "so it makes sense that the author should be sending it from there and it is doubtless that he also lives in a similar region. But for the rest, Holmes, I am still in the dark."

"Watson, you are too hard on yourself. Yes, that is most likely where he is from. As to his sinister dominance, take a look at the top end of the note. Notice that there are four notches, cut along this edge on the left here? They form almost non-existent, but still visible, steps, you see. Scissors, Watson, he has cut this rectangle from the original sheet with scissors. We know he did this with his left hand as these steps of a kind move outward to the left, wherein the most pressure would have been evident on the tool he used. As to his employer, well—"

He slithered out of his armchair and made toward a thick tome upon the shelf. Upon opening, it was clear that it was full of telegrams, letters and other assorted roughage. He rifled through them, his long, thin fingers blurred by their speed.

"Aha!" he cried. "Here it is Watson." He extracted a large rectangle of official looking card, and brought back towards me. "Observe, a letter from one Hamish Geoffreys, congratulating us on our fine work clearing the name of his dear brother, Gregory. Note, the watermark."

The three names, Geofferys, Geoffereys and Jones, were formatted thusly:

Geofferys, Geoffereys,

& Jones

"The three bars on this note here are surely the bottom of the 'o' and the two stems on the 'n' of 'Jones', are they not?" said he, prodding a long thin finger at the card beneath my nose.

"My word, so they are. Holmes, you have outdone yourself!"

The warm grin that marked his face reminded me that, behind his usually mechanical exterior, Holmes was keen of praise.

"Perhaps, yet for all our present knowledge, we are still lost. But, If I am not mistaken, that is Mrs Hudson upon the stair. Ahh, Good morning Mrs Hudson, yes, coffee for two, please, and might we lunch early to-day? Capital, and the beef should be fine. Oh, and send the page up, would you?"

She disappeared down the stairs, and not a moment later our fresh young page, Billy, bound into the room.

"Billy, I have task for you," said Holmes, scribbling out a small note. "Hie thee to Charing Cross—yes, Billy, in this weather—and find the Geofferys, Geoffereys and Jones' accounting firm. I want you deliver this note to Hamish Geofferys himself. He is an old fellow but warm of heart and knows of our exploits. Now, I should expect you to be back by noon, but if by some chance we are not here, Mrs Hudson will no doubt point you in the right direction."

He nodded grudgingly and stomped away, leaving Holmes and I to our pastimes. It was almost noon when a step could be heard upon the stair, however, it was the sweet face of Mrs Hudson that opened the door.

"Mr Holmes," said she, "telegram."

"Well Watson, it seems not every of london's fiends is hibernating." He read the note with a keen eye, and a wry smile warmed his face. "Aha, well, I should think the good Mr Harrington will have me eating my words before the day is through. Pack a night bag, if you will, and I shall start on lunch. We leave for Shoscombe by the one-thirty train. Mrs Hudson, If Billy should return after we have left, Shoscombe Old Place is where he he can find us."

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of action. Holmes remained tight lipped, caught up in his own musings, whereas I had no time for such luxuries. Perhaps one of the setbacks of living with the great detective was the lack of a steady timetable. I spent the next hour organising replacements for my long suffering patients, how lucky I am that our neighbor, Dr Ben Cummings, was content to practice in my stead. We were met upon the step of our house by a bedraggled and chilly faced cabby, another londoner dealing with the bitter weather. It was only once Holmes and I were sitting in the first class cabin to Summerset that my companion finally broke his silence.

"What do you recall of the name John Mason?" he asked, pulling the folded telegram out of his breast pocket.

"The fellow who hired us to investigate Sir Robert Norberton? My, I cannot say I recall Sir Robert in the best of lights. Was he not the who who hired an actor to impersonate his deceased sister to avoid losing the stables to his Jewish debtors?"

"The very same, and I'm inclined to agree. It seems that his prize colt—the Prince you will recall—was purloined from the stables two days ago."

"Two days ago! Why on earth should the man call for us now? On a further note, why are we helping the blackguard! Surely the local forces can handle a simple robbery?"

"Watson, I apologize for uprooting you in such a manner. Indeed, If it were any other slight against the man this telegram here will have served its purpose as kindling long ago. But this case is a singular adventure—I need not remind you of a certain raving old man who would believe Hell walks the Summerset Downs, and shows a keen interest in the local turf community. Surely you and your readers can suffer Sir Robert for another few days? Here, allow me to dictate,

"_Dearest Sherlok Holmes [He read]_  
_You will undoubtedly recall the tricky business of Sir Robert's not more than two years ago. However, I implore you to come to my aid once again. There is some curious business regarding Shoscombe Prince. Two nights ago, I returned to find the stallion gone, without a trace, yet within two evenings, He reappeared as if He had never left. However, at his hooves, a Centurion's helm and a pool of blood. I notified the local forces, and upon searching the area the dead body of some breed of miniature pony was found in a nearby thicket. We are collectively clueless. Come with haste._

_P. S. A warning regarding Dr Watson. Sir Robert has taken his ruin to heart, and holds the good doctor personally responsible. Please be cautious. If it does not shine through his demeanor, then, I should think his rage is held in some other capacity, just inching toward the brim. Again, be cautious._

_John Mason_

_Shoscombe Telegram Office_

"A Centurion's Helm. Telling, is it not? Now, I don't expect us to take that drunkard's words as truth, but you see why I had us at the station within the hour. So, Watson, what are your thoughts?"

We made small talk for some of the journey, but the majority was spent in a comfortable silence, watching as the fog slowly dissipated into a thick white blanket across the downs. It appeared that the nefarious weather choking London had come to pass, but thrice did we ride through a snowfall, heavy flakes building upon the sills of the windows. "Curious weather," my companion commented on numerous occasions, his brow knotted and his thin fingers tapping his knee. Aside from a furtive glance at the telegram as we passed Swindon, he seldom moved. The cab ride to Shoscombe Old Place was a bitter affair, and Holmes and I were glad to see the light of the old Georgian Villa, hovering over the undulating drive.

No sooner had our coats been taken from us were we ushered into Sir Robert's vast study. Upon our previous occasion here, we had no inclination to enter the house—save our escapade into its catacombs—so allow me to describe it briefly.

Upon entering, one is met by a lobby bursting through the house's outer restraints. It is so cavernous that I am sure he uses is as his ballroom upon an occasion, a view supported by the large crystal chandeliers that droop from the ceiling. Through this lobby, a grand staircase rises up and to the left, while two corridors below split the house into two sections. One is the staffing quarters, the other for guests. Only the upstair sections of the villa were occupied year round by Sir Robert.

Other than he, five other staffers lived within Shoscombe Old Place: John Mason, the Head Trainer and our chief employ when last we were present as now; Stevens, The Villa's long suffering butler; Mrs Norette, the maid of Lady Beatrice—whom you shall remember as the late sister of Sir Robert; Mr Norette, Mrs Norette's husband and the actor hired to impersonate Lady Beatrice; and a cook by the name of Gallagher, whom had only since entered the employment of Shoscombe Old Place.

Once one ascends the great staircase they are met firstly with the study, where a large writing desk accosted by a polished looking typewriter is walled in by an expansive library, girdered by grand windows that face out onto the training paddocks. Through this study, Sir Robert's private quarters, the gun room, and a small french style bathroom.

The man himself stood at his desk with his hands crossed behind his back, gazing out at the brooding weather. He wore white shirt, cream slacks and matching vest. His fair hair seemed ruffled and ill kept, but he stood tall, perfectly poised.

"Sir Robert," my companion stated acidly.

The man's hands curled themselves into fists, but released almost instantaneously. "Mr Holmes," Sir Robert addressed in a similar tone. "And dear Dr Watson. It appears that he does, infact, follow you everywhere, even here."

"Indeed he does," my companion retorted, "And I should see no reason why it is of any concern to you. He professes the truth, and in my eyes, justice has been served. Now, your horse, Shoscombe Prince."

Sir Robert was evidently not listening. As he rounded on me, I could see the outlines of veins in his neck, like the twisted roots of some ancient tree. "Imagine if you will, Dr Watson, the effect your little story had upon its publication. Seventeen pages was all it took to turn me from influential baronette to the scourge of the countryside. My sister's creditors want me out, the town hall wants me out...even the servants, Dr Watson.

"Mason only works for the stables now, he refuses to be directly associated with me. Even the staff keep their distance. Heaven only knows how we managed to get Gallagher to keep his position, we had only just hired him, after all," he spat. We were expecting this sort of reception, but the voracity by which he approached me spurned Holmes into action. The man was so close, he could have lit my cigarette if it were not for the barring hand that sprung between us.

Sir Robert caught the deadly gaze of Holmes and took a step back, grinning a vile grin. "Enough of the past," said he, "for I should think you are here on business, and what a business it is. Come, to the stables, Sergeant Hammersmith awaits. If you'll be so kind as to follow Stevens, I shall join you in but a moment."

We were led out, down the staircase and across the great lobby. We donned our coats, and were offered thick Wellingtons by Stevens. Holmes had said nary a word, his all seeing gaze darting to all manner of places as we exited through the great doors into the bitter evening. As soon as Stevens closed them, Holmes turned on me.

"Watson," said he in a commanding whisper, "have you your service revolver?" I started, jumping back as Holmes's keen glare caught my own.

I held a hand to my breast pocket, and instantly spited my poor foresight: It appeared I had left it at my Kensington home. I shook my head.

"Bah!" Holmes exclaimed. He turned to me to say more, but the arrival of our third member cut him off. Sir Robert had donned a large winter coat, with a great fox-fur hood and numerous large pockets.

"Braving the cold I see. Well, I suppose the game for you Holmes is warming in itself. Dr Watson here will just have to suffer," he smiled at me, "Come, the stables are a ways past the chapel. I'm sure you remember that from your last escapade."

Both of us followed obediently. I made eyes at Holmes, an attempt to coax out of him what he planned to tell me moments before, but the steely glare had disappeared, and he met my curious gazes with equally mundane eyes.

The path had been covered—we could see not gravel nor stone of the garden walk beneath our feet. Throughout the journey, Holmes's eyes were keenly searching the ground beneath us and off towards a thick brace of pines, girded by the thicket.

"I had hoped you would be here sooner, lest we continue this investigation through the night. Alas, it appears the gods have not been so willing to grant me such a wish," called our host ahead, also gazing out across the thicket. We left the light of the house behind us and further into the fleecy snow we trod. "Nonetheless," he continued, "I fear that if we save, even for a moment, the trail evaporates, like mist. Not that that would trouble you, Mr Holmes."

My companion merely grunted, and we pushed on in silence. We passed the chapel, where Holmes and I had discovered the grisly resting place of Sir Robert's sister, and finally a glimmer of light through the ever dimming twilight appeared before us.

"Gentlemen, the stables," announced Sir Robert. Through the growing twilight, we could make out little, but I was certain that these stables had been here longer than even the old Villa. Stone walls topped by thatches of hay and further burdened by thick drifts of snow. A light flickered through a small pane to the left of the door. Sir Robert knocked twice, and from within we could hear bottles toppling and the crunch of a chair being pushed back.

"I take Mason is present as well?" Holmes inquired.

"And ready to serve you as ever," replied our host.

In the interim, a heavy weight fell into the left hand pocket of my coat, and a whisper in my ear, "Take mine. Watch him now, I fear our time together is short."

I glanced toward Holmes a second time, but still he would not return an answer. It appeared his keen mind had set to work admiring the rusted steel axle resting upon the wall. I was not unaccustomed to wielding a revolver during our seminal escapades, but the accompanying warning shook me slightly. Why on earth would Holmes be leaving such a case to my hands?

The stable door opened, and a wave of heat caressed us. "Come in, come in," cried an unfamiliar voice, "Mr Sherlock Holmes, it's a long way from baker street, is it not? Aha, well, no matter, I am glad to have you at last. Ohh do come in from the cold, you too Sir Robert. And who... Ahhh, Dr Watson as well! I must say, Your presence here has given me cause to celebrate."

The speaker was a rotund, ruddy faced gentleman in a police uniform who we were introduced to as Sergeant Hammersmith. His cheeks were blush red, while his hair was a wispy tone of grey. Beside him sat the thinner and flush faced John Mason, appearing much as he did in my last little chronicle. His face was rough, however, and deep bags beneath his eyes certainly hinted at recent trouble in his life. His cold, self-possessing demeanor was ever present though, and he managed to bow to us all the same.

He shook both our hands heartily, "Good to see you gentlemen so soon! Why, it can't have been two years since I saw you last. Come, have a swill, the brandy welcomes those from the cold."

Holmes waved his hand in disinclination. "Sadly I must decline," he took out his pipe, "as does Watson. I must be clear of mind, while Watson here, well, his small penchant for the drink has turned somewhat nasty."

Their gaze turned upon me, sober and pitiful. I was furious, never would I succumb to such a vice. But, Holmes' gaze shut my lips, his deep set eyes assuring me that whatever he was planning, It would be for the better if my lips were sealed. Still smouldering within I managed a solemn nod and shot a rueful glare at Holmes. His eyes twinkled, but ne'er would he be more obvious than that.

"Mason, am I to assume that you were the first to discover the missing stallion?" he enquired, turning to our hailer.

"Aye, Mr Holmes, It was me, and what a fright it was too. I eat in the villa, you see—even I cannot stand these stables for long—and it was around this same time two nights ago whence I returned."

"And what did you eat?" Holmes asked.

"My dear Holmes, why, that seems rather off the track, does it not?" cried Sir Robert indignantly.

"My mind has been on other things Mr Holmes, but It must have been the curried mutton," said John Mason, nary glancing at his employer.

"Very well, and did it taste peculiar at all?" enquired Holmes.

"Mr Holmes, how can this be at all relevant?" cried Sir Robert once more, his face turning a livid red tinge.

With a sigh, Sherlock Holmes turned to face Norberton, his tall figure easily meeting that of the stable owner's

"Sir Robert, my business is to know things," Holmes said in a restrained calm. "What your cook has been feeding your staff could prove very telling. I recall a certain case in Montenegro—1866 I believe—wherein the whole defence rested on the contents of the Regent Prince's previous meal. Now, if you will please cease your interruption I should like to continue with my investigation! Did the meal taste peculiar, Mr Mason."

Sherlock Holmes's voice seldom rose, only in moments of sheer danger did his soothing tenor ever raise to a shout. But when his fury spilled over it was clear to all that never should Mr Holmes be crossed or angered.

Sir Robert appeared to shrink into the corner, his broad shoulders cambered. Mason and Hammersmith both sat upright in their chairs, the brandy losing all effect for a moment of outburst.

"Well, I can't say that I have the pallette for such things, but think it tasted rather fine. Gallagher made merry with the garlic, but I don't believe it made much of a difference."

"Quite so. Pray, continue with your narrative."

"Well, I had just returned from dinner. The snow had only just begun at that point and I could see that the sky was almost smothered by these deep black clouds. I tend to leave the fire smouldering when I leave to keep the my humble quarters warm. That night however, I was taken aback before I had even entered when I saw through the window that the fire was roaring anew. At first I thought the worst, and perhaps some of the embers had caught onto these timber boards along the floor, but no, the fire was burning safe. I did not notice Him missing immediately. As you can see, I can hardly see into the stables proper from here—Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock Holmes was using a bread knife, previously resting upon the humble table, to scrape at the boards upon the floor. "Please, take no account of my lack of attention. I have heard every word. You cannot see the stables from here, correct?"

"No, no you cannot. It is my usual practice to complete a round of the stables before sleep, and as such it was then that I discovered His disappearance. It didn't appear that there had been any violence before hand, no sign of a scuffle. The feed bin was empty, completely empty—as if one had washed it clean—and the doors to the prince's pen wide open. I remember almost fainting, and then running to the Villa without delay."

"And that is all? No sign of a blue flash perhaps, lightning?" My companion asked, his queer task upon the wooden planks apparently complete.

"No, Mr Holmes, that is all."

Sherlock Holmes frowned, a sign that Mason's statement had not shone light onto the mystery.

"Well then," he finally said, "Let us see The Prince"


	2. Chapter 2

**Case One: The Adventure of the Centurion' s Helm: The second of two parts.**

**Paper_mate_Pony**

****John Mason led us past a small threadbare mattress upon the floor, through a short passage and out into the main room of the stables. The roof was low, and it appeared as cavernous as the lobby. There were four horses in all, segregated to their own, simple pens. Each had a wooden feed bin—a halved barrel—and a shared trough of water. The citations for each were hung from the thick oak pillars that held the ceiling aloft, and it was therefore no issue guessing which stallion was Shoscombe's prize winner. A deep black nag, fifteen hands at best, nibbled at a deep pile of hay, nickering softly to the mice and the roosting owls.

"Shoscombe Prince!" Mason proudly proclaimed as we reached the furthest pen.

Holmes asked if it was admonishable to take a look at the horse from within the pen. Mason showed no contempt for him, and waved my partner through. For five minutes we watched the master at work, examining each hoof in turn. He then rifled through the hay, sniffing at and examining strands as a curious hound would. Mason, aware of his powers, and I remained quiet and contemplative, allowing Sherlock Holmes to continue his business. Hammersmith, however, gazed on as if he were a school boy attending a cock fight. He swooned everytime Holmes did something he had not, such as skimming the trough or cleaning out the Hooves of the beast. Norberton remained quiet, curled up in his corner, contemplating his shoes.

Finally, Holmes was finished and we were led to the deep crimson patch upon the floor. "Have you touched nothing?" Holmes inquired, and Hammersmith decreed that he had not, and everything was as it had been. It was kidney shaped, roughly the size of a small child and the color of satin red turkish silk. Holmes scoured the area, a methodical repeat of his viewing of the stallion's pen. We watched in silence, and it appeared all was normal, but I could not help paying special attention to my friend's manner, to purloin some clue or signal that he thought there was some connection to Mr Harrington's tale.

I was not one to be swayed by drunken wailings of an aging madman, but the sheer coincidence was chilling. What if such a creature did exist, and was stalking the hills at this moment? I personally thought that the old man's narrative was full of holes, but one thing he had been very adamant of was its almost human qualities. The Hound of the Baskervilles, although not spectral nor demonic, was a living, breathing beast of the like we had never seen, so what then of the queer apparition of Mr Harrington.

He had appeared upon the cusp of sanity back in Baker Street, and although not in my field of expertise, the man portrayed the very definitions of a stress related disorder. It was not, therefore, off the cuff to assume that what he had seen was little more than an imagination losing grip of a very real situation.

Such was the position my thoughts had led me to as Sherlock Holmes rose, his face demure. "And the helm?" he asked Hammersmith, who lead us to the doors of the stable, where a battered-in Centurion's helmet lay on its side. At this very moment, Stevens, the butler, rounded through the little door.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes," said he. "A telegram has been received, addressed to your very self from the Charing-Cross Telegram Office. Would you like to receive it now, or on the cessation of your investigation?"

"Why yes, thank you, Stevens. Now would be fine." Sherlock Holmes' face lit up as he was handed the short slip of card, and appeared to read it thrice, his keen gaze darting left and right. His face, I could see, took upon itself a whitish gloss, but his features remained demure as ever

"Gentlemen," he announced, "It appears I must return to London at once."

"Why, Mr Holmes, you have only just begun!" cried Hammersmith. Holmes nodded sagely in agreement.

"Indeed, but while I cannot continue this investigation, I am sure that my methods shall. Watson here can doubtlessly remain for the few days it shall take for me to sort through this slight indiscretion. Watson, what say you?"

I of course could not say no, but I was furious with him all the same. Dr Cummings had his own practice to attend to, and on the occasions Holmes left me unto my own devices I rarely made headway. Further still, Holmes had made it quite clear that he saw ill of Norberton, and I most certainly believed that his presence was making an impression on the baronet. But, once again his gaze forced my hand, and I let slip a solemn nod. "Excellent. Watson, a report of your findings tomorrow morning, if you please. Stevens, would be so kind to call a cab?"

He left through the door he entered and I, for the third time in my career, was forced to become the very brilliance I endeavoured to record in these many diaries.

Hammersmith turned his eyes to me, and looked at my person through his whiskers. "Well, what do you think, Dr Watson?"

I grimaced, unsure of whether I should divulge my adolescent theories, or continue with Holmes' examination of the Helmet.

"Perhaps a tipple, Doctor?" asked Sir Robert, still brooding in his corner. Despite our mutual disdain, he raised a fair point. I had missed lunch in favor of last minute organisation, and it was already leaning toward seven in the evening. The faces on Mason and Hammersmith agreed, as they too had been wrenched from their meals, and so we resolved to return to the stables after dinner. Sir Robert offered to host me at the villa, but I declined, claiming that it would be easier for me to dine in the very building of the crime scene. He parted ways, and left us to our humble feast. A leg of mutton roasted over the fire that warmed us from the hearth; as Mason explained, he refused to leave the stables lest some untoward happenings befall his stallion.

We ate quickly, but once the leg had been decimated, Mason turned to me with the air of a concerned friend.

"So tell me, Doctor," he asked, lowering his voice so that only I could hear, "Why did you come? I believe I expressly mentioned that you were in danger."

"I saw not hide nor hair of your telegram until we were an hour out of Queen's Park station," I answered taking a precautionary glance at Hammersmith, who had drunk himself into a stupor. "Holmes is a considerate man in some respects, but given a case like this one, one must be prepared to drop everything."

"Well have you protection, a stick, anything?" asked Mason leaning even closer; I could smell the brandy on his breath.

I pulled the handle of Holmes' revolver from my side pocket, and Mason nodded, before leaning right into my ear. "Watch yourself, Doctor. You may see that you find need for it before tomorrow is through. I cannot vouch for my employer's self-control, now that Mr Holmes has disappeared. Watch yourself."

We were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Gentlemen, you should find that it is infact eight o'clock. Shall we continue with this investigation?" came Sir Robert's baritone through the door.

We convened by the old helmet, and I tentatively began my own examination. It appeared to been a highly polished brass ornament, fit for a head two sizes smaller than mine. The plumage was a vibrant blue color, like indian silk and had the texture of a shoe brush. The outside, apart from the dent, revealed nothing more to my eyes, other than the wearer most definitely receiving a kick to the head. the inside was padded using a sort of miniature downy pillow with cotton bands to keep the fit snug.

Again, there was nothing to be learned. I stood up, stroking my chin like Holmes did, and feeling awfully inadequate. If this helmet had been bashed in, then why was there no blood within? It must, therefore, have been bashed while on the ground, but why? Plus, there was obviously some form of injury involved, as a patch of blood that large could not have come from a mere gash.

"'Sat it?" wondered the Sergeant aloud.

"Perhaps we should call it a night, Dr Watson," inclined Norberton, who had regained his composure during his absence, or perhaps that of Sherlock Holmes.

"The pony should be left till tomorrow. The good Sergeant has flagged its position well, have you not? Quite, so, shall I accompany you to your chambers?"

I shared a glance with Mason, who regarded the offer with caution, but his solemn nod gave me the freedom to enjoy the villa's hospitality.

"Under the condition that I sleep in the servants quarters, Sir Robert," I demanded, but added quickly, "I don't wish to make a fuss, I am here on business after all."

Mason smiled at me, and with one final glance at the surroundings we all evacuated.

"Remember, Doctor," Mason whispered into my ear, "keep your pistol close, he is not to be trusted."

I nodded without looking back, and followed the baronet through the threshold of the office doorway and into the steadily declining eve.

"I hope you aren't suspicious of me, Dr Watson," Sir Robert was at my side. "You ruined me, it is true, but I am a fair man. What I did was wrong, no? You would agree, would you not?"

I treated his conversation with suspicion, and answered him a simple nod.

"Ah hah! I thought that was the case—Well, I mustn't say that there was ever any doubt, was there? All I did was rephrase the good Mr. Holmes' words. You see, you are quite a predictable person—no offence intended of course, just an observation. But hullo, who's that?"

His gaze had snapped toward the thicket, and mine was soon to follow. It may have been a trick of the eyes, but I would swear that I saw a figure dive below the thick scrub. My heartbeat quickened, and I could tell that apprehension had struck the baronet.

It was almost pitch black, aside from the weak light that paved the way from the stable to the chapel, and the villa beyond. With a glance at Sir Robert, I ventured into the darkness. Through the downy snow fall, I could hear his footsteps behind me. I pulled Holmes' pistol from my pocket, and holding it in front of me, I slowed to a crawl and moved toward what seemed like a small dip in the landscape.

"Anything?" asked Norberton as I mounted the dip.

Apparently, there was not. While I could hardly see through the evening gloom, what I could make out was not indicative of the silhouette I had spotted moments before.

"Aye, well, best not to let our nerves get the better of us, Dr Watson. Come, to your quarters if you please," Norberton stood beside me, and although his frame didn't show it, I could tell by his voice that he was as rattled by the apparition as I.

The night was spent in abject misery. It would seem that while happy to contend with my wishes, Sir Robert could not do so without spite. The mattress I had been given turned out to be stuffed with hay, and although deep in the confines of the Villa, rather failed to maintain warmth. I therefore spent the majority of the night finding new and imaginative ways of keeping the chill away. By eleven, I had donned every layer of clothing in my night bag; by midnight I had begun to contemplate stuffing some of the extra pockets of my Westinghouse with straw from the mattress.

But upon the forefront of my mind were the ever present curiosities surrounding this case, and how I could in anyway re-create Holmes' methods. Doubtless, in a similar position, he would have spent the next three days in a smoky haze, allowing his mind to continue where his body and the physical world could not. But then, Holmes would have exhausted every other available course before resorting to sloth. He would not have dismissed the silhouette as an apparition, and nor should I have done. He would have fought the bitter cold to find that pony's corpse, before having even considered taking dinner.

I leapt to my feet, a not inconsiderable feat given my attire, and bashfully threw open the door to my humble room. I rustled like an oak in autumn, and running was certainly a difficult prospect. However, I made it through the lobby without waking a soul, and brushed through the great doors into the cold once more.

It was a still night, and yet I found that beneath my ridiculous attire it was rather comfortable. It took much longer to find the very place now than it had been a few hours earlier, doubtlessly because it was far, far darker at present. But, through process of elimination I was certain I had re-located the very same dip in the snow. Searching through my vast bulk, Holmes' pistol found itself in my hands, and I very cautiously neared the dip.

Suddenly, a broad figure burst from the thicket, and waved his arms above his head. The surprise of this apparition appearing at my side forwent any pretence of balance I may maintained otherwise. I toppled to my rear with a yell, flinging the snout of the pistol hither and thither.

"Hold it!" I yelled in the blind hope that the figure would listen. "Hold it, I'll shoot otherwise!"

The figure started, and it's arms flew up to protect its face, "Ahh! No, its me! Harrington! Don't shoot, for Christ's sake!"

I was still trapped upon the snow, a pretty detective I had turned out! "Harrington!" I cried, "You blackguard, why are you here!"

"With me, Watson, Mr Harrington is here with me. Now, if you don't mind, I should think it bad form if you were to shoot me with my own pistol," a smooth tenor from the patch of black thicket I had fallen in.

"Holmes! How... Why are you here! What of business from Charing-Cross?" I yelled manically.

"Hush, Watson, hush. The miscreant is close, very close," Holmes' soothing tones calmed me somewhat, but did nought to stifle the rage that swelled within.

"Who?" I asked in a harsh whisper, flailing my arms in a hopes the action might recover some of the balance and dignity I had irretrievably lost.

"Aha, but that is the question, is it not! Mr Harrington, if you might help me accomodate my friend here—On three. One, two... and three. Ah, charming outfit Watson—Now, you will recall that Stevens came to me with a telegram, regarding happenings in Charing-Cross. It was doubtlessly from Billy, as I'm sure you had guessed, but it is through this telegram that Mr Harrington and I have become intertwined. But I should think It would do us both a favor to hear the full tale from the lips of the very man himself. Mr Harrington, if you would." Holmes gestured toward our present companion.

"Aye, Sir, and what a tale I have for you," said he in a rough tenor. "There is no shame for an elderly gentleman such as myself to see the err in his ways. I was drunk, and those images were perhaps simple hyperbole. But, of course, I have not lost my mind—I am most sure of this—and I doubt my own imagination, tortured or not, is capable of such abhorrent images.

"And so, I recalled a most chilling sight. There was a man, you see, who sat two rows back from myself. He was very tall and thin, and his eyes were sunk deep into the back of his head, a great bulbous white thing it was too. But, never before was there a fellow who stared through his beady little eyes with so much hatred and contempt. Nary horns nor the tail of a snake, but the devil within no less. You see, perhaps that gentleman had some connection with what I had seen that night—so my less than sober mind theorised. Shoscombe Place is well known for its racing prestige—I remembered hearing of it from liverpool, way back when. A Horse robbery? I knew of Norberton's ill repute with his debtors—as do most, Dr Watson. A showstopper like the prince would undoubtedly attract attention from the vile creatures of the devil, not to mention the subsidiaries one might come upon, if they were to deal with the right person. I pondered returning to Baker street at once, of course, but my musings had already dragged me half the way to Charing Cross.

"God's hand must have been present today, as I doubt that without it, such auspicious timing should not have been. It so happens that as I was walking through Charing Cross—for I my feelings for you had taken a bitter turn, I fear I must admit—who should pass me but the very same gentleman from the train! Oh, he is not a very noticeable sort, and I believe my eyes just fell upon him. He obviously had a very good sense for these things; no sooner had I made eyes on him did he return my gaze. He stopped in the middle of the street and glared at me. Such hatred in those eyes, Mr Holmes. Yet, he smiled at me, in some twisted friendly greeting. So we stood for a moment, taking the other in. I, in my beggar's rags, and he in a deep black frock-coat fading with age. He never blinked, nor did he fluster. Then, with a curt nod, he disappeared down a side alley—Blithen-Wells corner, or some such.

"I stood rooted on the spot, padding my forehead with my sleeves and feeling terrible emulsified. I had half a mind to chase the fellow down, until a troop of firemen came running up that very same street. I followed as best I could—this frame is as ancient as it is weak—and saw smoke billowing from the highest story of a block of offices, five high in all. How queer it is, Dr Watson, to witness a pyre burning through snow-locked eves. Men were being escorted from the flats, all of them covered in a thick veil of soot. Women shrieked and carried on, as women do, and all around a steady stream of onlookers stopped to gawk.

"I myself got shouldered back, toward the far end of the growing crush, where the urchins and beggars collected.

"'Whose offices?' I asked aloud.

"'Weww, sir, tha' would be Geoffery's, Geofferey's and Jownses accounting furm' said a small urchin fellow. I ignored the boy, but immediately knew that you must be notified. So terribly estranged I had become, however, I lost my way completely. For hours, through the biting snow I searched for any sign of your apartment. Alas, It had well gone three by the time I reconnected with baker street, and your landlady informed me you had left hours before. But I knew where you would be headed, It must have been connected somehow, so I spent the final penny 'pon my person on a train ticket back to Shoscombe." He smiled, clasping his hands together in front of him.

"And so," Holmes looked at me, "We arrive at our current situation. As you have no doubt guesses, Billy's missive said little more than the good Mr Harrington has witnessed. Through one of the many smiling dealings of fate, we crossed each other's paths at the Summerset Station, where Mr Harrington pitched his case once again, to the present effect."

"But what of the accounting firm? Surely that is where this whole case impinges!" I stipulated.

"Upon what grounds, Watson? Do not believe, even for a moment, that these two cases are not inextricably linked. The gentleman upon the train, Watson. Very tall and thin, bulbous head, sunken eyes and perpetually ill tempered. Watson, you are my faithful boswell, surely you can remember such a striking resemblance as that!" He spoke like a man possessed, holding onto my collar.

"My dear Holmes, we have been in partnership for years, how could I possibly recall such features as those!"

"Ay, well, I suppose you never did have the pleasure of meeting the man in person. Worry not friend Watson, you shall meet soon enough. A Gentleman like he would never leave such blatant evidence, and once we catch him in the act, we are in a most favorable position to ensnare the lesser miscreant who did."

"Holmes, you're speaking in tongues! Who is this gentleman, and why does the description of this...elderly fellow hold so much weight to your investigation?"

"Because there is no blood sitting in yonder stables, friend Watson!" Sherlock Holmes shook his finger toward the soft glow of the stable's window. I gave him a look of pure confusion, as if I had detected the foulest smell. He sunk his chin with a smile, "Ahh, but of course. The simplest way to explain is to show you the err of our ways. We, of course, assumed that the red patch upon the floor was blood. So, our minds immediately turned to the felled pony, yes?"

I nodded.

"Quite, but had you actually examined the poor fellow, you will have found no gash nor mangled limb. My, you came close, most certainly, but you never examined it, did you?"

"Why, Holmes I did not. How can you possibly—"

"Because, Watson, you never gave my silhouette more than perhaps a moment's notice. If you had trusted your instinct instead of following that blackguard's advice, you most certainly would have found this sitting below your nose."

He pulled from the thicket a bundle of what I immediately thought was cloth. But as it fell at my feet with a thud its stubby limbs flailed. I jumped back, shocked at the sudden appearance of our miniature breed. I could see nought of its features through the dark, but rummaging through my notes, a brief estimate of it's dimensions is not hard to conjure. Four feet from snout to rump, and from the tip of its bristly mane to its hooves I took it to stand perhaps as tall.

"Good God, Holmes, you found it!" I cried, to the reception of a violent hush.

"Indeed, as you dined with Mr. Mason I climbed the fence, and Harrington and I spent the evening searching –"

"Aye, and I should swear he fits my premonition perfectly!" Mr Harrington cut through Holmes' train of thought.

Sherlock Holmes ignored him. "Searching for this. No horrid gash across the temples, no. And so we must ask ourselves what, indeed, has been spilled upon the floor of the stables if not blood? It is hard to see but we need not sight for this examination—I'm bringing his mouth to you now—What do you smell, Watson?"

It was spicy and yet foul, like some rotted vegetable.

"Garlic?" I suggested.

"Arsenic, Watson. At least, in some unconventional form. Our devil must have carried it upon his person, in a powder or such, and reconstituted it over the fire. You will recall how I refused to allow you a tipple, Watson. Well, It was not hard to detect that very same odor in Mason's humble sette. At first I thought Norberton had some part to play, but upon examining the stain the facts lined up. Our devil must have used some form of pot or pan to dissolve his deadly mix, and my mind immediately fixated upon the tin mugs both men were using. One of those had the remnants of this deadly poison."

I interrupted him with a wave of my hand. "You are talking as if this is a very different fellow to our arsonist from London. You mean to say there are two of them?"

"Watson, this is frustrating to no end. Please, ensure me that you recognise the description of Mr Harrington here!"

I shook my head. Holmes' chin sunk into his breast with a sigh.

"Well, you must take my word for it then. This man, this arsonist—if indeed he himself was desperate enough to set the fire—is a cunning fox, an eel or trout. Slippery and hidden behind the murky waters of his deceit. A master craftsman of crime. It has been long since this fellow has fought his war on everything from the frontlines. Yet, he would not be so base, so inable of his own profession, to leave such blatant ties to himself just resting against the floor! Watson, this fellow is working with a whole army, the general of which has failed him. Blatantly defied him, even. He shall be back to clean this general's mess, and so we must be ready for him." He had grasped my collar again, the spark in his eyes slowly returned.

"Holmes, I am truly sorry, but I just don't know a man alive who fits your criteria."

"Pah, you aren't thinking Watson. Of course there is no man alive such as this!"

His comment surely made me start.

"Pah? Holmes, listen to yourself! You mean to tell us that we have become prey to the undead?"

"Gentlemen, the case, if you please." Mr Harrington brought his large hands down upon both our shoulders. We glared at him ruefully, and under our doubled gaze his good intentions were stayed. His hands lept off our shoulders and met in the center of his chest.

"Holmes, enough of this. You say this fellow has been poisoned by arsenic. Why?"

"I know not, Watson. These facts are all we have. This fellow here," he motioned at the limp body of the pony, "has been poisoned by arsenic, and there is arsenic residue upon the floor of the stables and before the hearth. I believe our devil did his business by the fire upon the first evening when Mason returned to find his fire ablaze—which is also why Mason tasted garlic in his mutton—and then kept a vial of the substance upon his person. Horse thievery is a most likely cause. If he could not thieve the stallion, for whatever reason, then I believe that he decide that no one could, and wished to use his poison then. However, our fellow here must have consumed it instead, spilling much of it upon the floor there.

"Now, I do believe that Mr Harrington was right, and that this pony was infact sporting that brass Centurion's helm. He was not, however, bucked in the head, nor did he suffer any serious trauma. The stallion had no brass filings in his iron shoes, as there should have been given the nature of the brass within the helm, so it was not Prince that killed our fellow here. So, upon consuming the poison our devil must have flung the helm to the side in a hopes to extract what he could from the mouth of our victim. Upon the discovery that he could not, he left it to die among the thicket." Holmes completed his narrative with his normal air of certainty. Harrington was in awe of the man.

"My, it is as if you were there, Mr Holmes," he cooed.

"Perhaps," he smiled, "but we are only half finished. The rest of this case rests upon our capture of the arsonist, who will doubtless return to remove the evidence of his compatriot's failure. Now, I do believe he intends to leave his expedition till the brink of dawn. Until then, we must remain warm—Watson appears to have already done so—and be ever vigilant."

Over the years I have experienced many bleak vigils following my dear friend Holmes upon his escapades. None, however, were as deadly as this one. I myself was tortured by the cold, even through my many layers, and I cannot fathom the misery of my companions. Harrington, however, was a hardy fellow, and even through his relatively thin green trench coat appeared to remain steadfast. I can only guess that he had spent more nights upon the downs of Summerset than he was comfortable to admit. Holmes had never been one to suffer, as when his body was in strife his mind was most free. Steely concentration marked his eyes as we lay in snow, waiting for dusk to come.

Holmes had brought with him an iron pan covered with an iron lid of sorts, no doubt lifted from the stables, in which he explained were coals from the fire. I can only guess how he came upon such coals, but the warmth was well received, and most likely kept us going for the rest of the night.

From across the hills, we heard the Summerset clock tower chime thrice, then four times, then five as the morning grew even darker. The warmth from the pan had begun to die, and Holmes and Harrington were now embraced, sharing what little warmth they could muster. I was within moments of calling off the vigil, as my fears for Sherlock Holmes' health steadily outweighed my desire to see the case through. However, I sensed excitement from Holmes, whose slow and even breathing, despite the cold, halted with a sharp sniff.

"Watson," he whispered so softly it could have been the wind, "By the line of oaks to the left of the stable. What do you see?"

My eyes panned to the designated spot. Very slowly, a tall figure was ghost stepping through the snow.

"Aye, I see him too," came a whisper from behind.

"Let him get closer," Holmes whispered again, "We must make chase, in any case, but we are in no condition to prolong it—hullo, what is that, next to him, do you see?"

The silhouette couldn't have been further than fifty yards, and yet it was almost impossible to see what Holmes had through the gloom. But there, by the figure's thin legs was another. It trotted on all fours, and I at first assumed it to be a hound of some form. But alas, it was too linear, too proud. It trotted with a bounce unlike I have ever seen, and its head was held tall and strong, not like some bull dog with it's snout to the ground.

"Aha! I told you there were more of them, ten in all," reprimanded Mr Harrington from behind us.

"You mean to say—"

"Yes, Watson, yes he does. Our victim here seems to be in good company." Holmes, for the first time in his life, sounded as shocked as I.

We waited for the fellow to close upon the stable and his pony followed him diligently. Six struck across the downs, which meant that the brink of dawn could not have been more than a few heartbeats away away, and I could see the pair of figures start slightly. The human figure surreptitiously gestured, and fractions of words wafted towards us.

"...Hammer...bloody...discor...portal...somewhe...silent...n...witnesses..."

"My God, the man is insane!" Harrington voiced our collective thoughts.

"As were you, Mr Harrington," Holmes said with an airy tone. It appeared that the fellow's actions had taken him by surprise.

The silhouette of the pony made what appeared to be some form of bow, before trotting back to the line of oaks. The fellow cast a look around before he made for the stable doors, and disappeared behind the old cobbled building.

"Now!" Holmes yelled, and we rose from our fox hole as one. I sped ahead of Holmes, whose stiff legs hindered his speed. Harrington, falling victim to his age, fell behind immediately. His heavy breathing could be heard behind us all the same. It took us but moments to reach the heavy doors of the main stable. The figure had already taken hold of his prize, grasping the Helmet behind the folds of his deep green overcoat..

From his side, his other arm levelled with us, pistol in hand. He fired thrice while dashing off toward the oak trees, and I felt one bullet come whizzing past my shoulder. From behind me, there was a cry followed by the sound of deadweight collapsing into the snow. I turned, aghast.

"No!" Holmes cried, holding his shoulder, "After him Watson! After Him!" His eyes glinted, and I knew he trusted me. Harrington came puffing toward us, he eyes dancing between my expression and Holmes' writhing figure in the snow. "Watson!" Holmes cried once more, and I darted off, following my prey's footsteps in the snow.

I threw my Westinghouse off, which was followed by a colorful sweater of my Wife's creation, and compounded my speed after Holmes's would be killer. His path lead me to the oaks, and a rustle ahead told me I was close. The branches were thick and knotted, thus it took me far longer than I wish to admit. Through the receding darkness however, our figure's silhouette dwindled. I made chase, confidence building now that day teetered upon the horizon.

He turned back, and I could see his face properly in the early dawn light. Two beady eyes, red with rage, stabbed at me from within a sunken forehead. His pistol rose again, but as far away as I was, his shots flung wide and were of no issue to me.

He mounted the hill, and started yelling like a man possesed. "Dawn Hammer! Dawn Hammer you filthy waste of skin and blood, we must fly! Open it! Open it you fool! We shall lose them through the streets!"

At the time, I admit his words paid little effect to me. So concentrated was I on keeping him within reach, that the sheer irrationality of the statement surprises me, even now.

Holmes, his shoulder slung over that of Harrington's, burst through the thicket behind me. I hesitated momentarily, just to ensure he was not to die on me. His face was far from pale, and in fact, it was on one of the very few occasions I have seen it livid. "Watson, don't you dare halt for us! After him!"

I mounted the rise myself seconds after the silhouette of our miscreant, he having half bound, half rolled, down the other side, where a very nervous pony was fidgeting, entertaining some blue lantern before him.

I should point out now, that this pony was no contemporary breed of horse. The body in the thicket was undoubtedly of the same family, four feet tall, roughly the size of a well fed Great Dane. Its pupils, however, had a most human quality. Large, perhaps the size of my fist, and a similar satin blue to its mane. Such a queer sight, but under the circumstances inappropriate to halt and stare. As the fellow eyed his master bounding down the rise, and myself hot upon his heels, I am sure I observed his eyes grow.

Then, well, the most amazing thing occured.# A large ball of blue light sprung from nowhere, so bright that it outshone the impending dawn like the sun outshines all heaven's stars in the sky. "Thats it! Thats exactly what I saw!" cried Harrington, having also mounted the rise, burdened by Sherlock Holmes.

"Onward Watson! After the man!" he cried himself. We closed upon the ever growing ball, and our devil knew I was at his heels. The pony looked to be in considerable anguish, his brow having furrowed as sweat dripped from his mane, even through the frigid air.

"Dawn Hammer! Now! Through!" cried the miscreant, and the pony followed his orders without delay. I could feel the energy of the pulsating ball shift as its creator passed through. Again, had I been of any other demeanor, I would have been stunned at its very existence. Alas, Holmes' insistence, not to mention my own growing thrill, stayed such thoughts. I was working through instinct alone.

As we neared it, I could hear fizzles and snaps as if some great electric machine was powering the whole apparition. I could even feel heat upon my face, as if through this great orb summer itself awaited us. The miscreant's breathing quickened in desperation and I could sense that his only present goal was to enter this great glowing orb. He was to succeed, as even though I had made gains upon him, there remained a gap yards wide.

"Follow them, Doctor!" cried Harrington, whose old frame lumbered down the rise, following a now sprinting Sherlock Holmes. The miscreant entered with a desperate yelp, and I was to follow. I let go a final cry before being engulfed by the dazzling blue sphere.

It was a singularly displeasing experience. My arms entered first, but they felt miles away at the very same time, stretched to infinity. I felt my navel ram against the back of my skull, and then it too wrung itself into microscopic pieces. I felt a cold chill move down my spine as it twisted itself between one world and the next. What I saw was irrelevant, for I believe my eyes followed my navel and weathered the journey somewhere beneath my skull. I felt the totality of time wash across my back like dew rolls off an autumn leaf, and then pool at my feet. For a single moment, I was both God and servant, everything and nothing, and I can assure that for what little time I spent between worlds, It was far, far too long.

And suddenly, reality congealed before my eyes. High, dark walls stretching toward an infinite sky. Stars dotted the space between spaces, but what different stars they were. I should think that I know my way through the night sky, but never before had I seen constellations such as these.

Time briefly passed, and my mind told me I had landed in some form of alley. Cobbles beneath me, and brick walls to both sides. A great steel container sat to the side, and appeared to be piled high with black, shimmering bags. Between the two buildings, a thin alley stretched. I spun to the left and right, thoroughly disoriented. But there, down one side past the steel box, a shadow in the yellow light. A man was running, his silhouette growing as he disappeared.

Memories of Summerset came flooding back. I gave chase, but It seemed running had become rather harder then I recalled. Left foot, then right, I remember having to tell myself. Slowly, I regained feeling in my lower extremities, and picked up speed. By the time I reached the corner, however, he had gone.

I was met by another intersection. To my left, three yards away, a large chain link fence. To my right, the exit of this bricks-and-mortar maze. Assuming that there was simply nowhere else for our fiend to turn to, I made for it. Slowing to a walk I entered a small sort of square. Edwardian houses were packed in close, and I, for a moment, believed we had been taken back in time. No lights shone through the shuttered windows, and even still, the great moon above provided ample illumination.

Above the rooftops, great ivory towers rose into the starry sky, topped by gilded domes of deep purple. Never, in all my travels, have I seen such a place. Even the clouds seemed otherworldly, thick and white, not like our wispy, thin british clouds. They could have been painted onto the night sky.

"I've got you now, ya' two legged freak!"

I had only time to glance at the blue sphere careering toward me before getting tossed to the floor. Whatever it was, it stung like a wasp, yet as I was brought to the unforgiving cobbles, I noticed how light it felt in my arms.

"Hey! Lemme' go!" it squealed at me.

"Good Lord, it speaks!" I yelled, throwing it as far from me as I could before crawling back.

A transformation occurred before my eyes. From lightning fast ball of fur, two wings emerged, a tail of marvellous colours and a neck, sporting a head with eyes of bright cerise. It was—quite infallibly, and rather unbelievably, but wholly the truth—a small, cyan pegasus.

"Ha, yeah, try and run, you hairless freak!" and she flew at me once again. One of her hooves landed in my spleen, and another right across where I had been assailed by a jezail bullet long ago.

"Rainbow Dash, no! That's not the one!" a second, purer voice cried.

"What!" cried the blue pegasus—whom shall now be referred to by her true name, Miss Rainbow Dash, "As if this isn't. C'mon, Twilight, it's not like they grow on trees!"

"Be that as it may, Dash, I think we're mistaken. Just look at it... Or smell it even."

"Yeah, so? It could'a just grown or somthing, for all we know. C'mon, give me a break, will ya? You're just sore I caught it first!" Miss Dash jeered.

I groaned in pain, the throbbing of my shoulder combining with the dull ache of my torso. Through my bleary vision, a second of these queer ponies trotted up to my captor. Through Miss Dash's legs, which straddled me like a cage, I guessed it might be the same size, and of similar gate. This new comer however was a dull purple color, almost that of lavender, and spoke with an air of sophistication the likes of which was not dissimilar to that of a doctor or priest.

"Rainbow Dash," Miss Twilight Sparkle—as was her own, queer, title—reprimanded, "leave it be. Does it look like that same beast to you? Oh Goodness, its bleeding... Rainbow Dash!"

"Bleeding? Guhhh! gedditoffgedditoffgedditoff!" Miss Dash squealed, taking to the skies like a scolded hound.

I was most confused. Aside from the, thankfully subsiding, pain in my shoulder and chest, I felt not the searing pain of a bullet wound or gash. I doubted that through my layers of clothes her hooves could have caused me much damage. I did nothing to check for myself, however. The sheer unbelievability of the situation left me without a tongue or single coherent thought in my head.

Images of Holmes' pistol, I must admit, seeped through the haze. However, I was too shocked and too bleached to fully command my body and retrieve it from a pocket two layers down. So I instead lay there numbly, possibly teetering on unconsciousness, and through bleary eyes, watched as Miss Sparkle saw to my apparent wound.

Her soft, purple muzzle twisted my head back a forth, examining the back of my neck. A short cry followed and she darted back, thin strands of crimson trickled down her nose.

"Rainbow! Gosh, you nearly killed it!" her ears were flat against her skull.

"Did not! You saw me, I didn't even touch its stupid neck."

"Well how do you explain this two inch gash in its neck, hmm?"

Their argument dissolved into stalemate, but I for one was glad that they, at least, had my best interests at heart. Perhaps it was this sensation of gratitude for not striking me further, or simply because I was still too shocked to move for myself, but even with a most ample window to escape through I did not take it. The exchange grew ever more heated, and both females were now muzzle to muzzle, gnarling through their teeth.

"She would not condone such a...such a weak course of action." Miss Sparkle was balancing upon the tips of her hooves.

"Yeah, well I bet she would have expected more from her best student, than to drop the most apparent lead we ever had!" Miss Dash took flight, gaining two inches on her counterpart.

Miss Sparkle made a sound like that of a wronged woman. "Fine. See if I care! Its not like we're the only ones looking or anything! Its not like it could be completely innocent or anything! Its not like we're going to descend to his own level, or anything!"

"Yeah, well... fine! We won't torture it! Maybe we'll just let it go running about, without a care in the world!" Miss Dash squeaked.

A cool, collected male voice from behind cleared his throat. "Indeed, I should think it very wise to unhand the good doctor this instant!"

Sherlock Holmes, it appeared, could command respect wherever he went.


End file.
